House of Bathory(98)

“Last thing she told me was that they were heading toward the Polish border. Take the D1, then we turn north in twenty kilometers toward the mountains.”

“OK.”

Betsy rubbed her forehead. The rise in elevation must be giving me a headache, she thought. But Aspen’s altitude was eight thousand feet; she shouldn’t have any problem.

Then she remembered the envelope Daisy had given her. She pulled it from her bag and opened it carefully, working not to tear her father’s writing.

Pulling out the pages inside, she recognized the format immediately. It was a psychological report on a patient.

Case Study Report: Count Vilm os Bathory.

Attending Physician: Ceslav Path

Count Vilmos Bathory was admitted to the asylum on March 15, 1972. He was 32 years of age at the time. His family insisted he be institutionalized because “he was a danger to the family and others,” harboring delusions of sadistic powers—including vampirism. He was arrested after biting a fourteen-year-old cousin on the neck, inflicting wounds that required hospitalization.

Count Bathory was an attractive, athletic man, standing 1.9 meters, and possessing a powerful yet slender physique. During the first few months, he had to be restrained in a vest to keep him from physically assaulting his attendants. As a precaution, he was restrained during psychiatric treatments as well.

The patient was at first unwilling to speak or eat. He would not maintain eye contact with his doctor or anyone on the hospital staff. He remained silent and withdrawn for approximately two weeks, while losing over 10 kilograms of weight.

On April 1, he finally did speak to an attendant. He agreed to eat only if he were given raw meat. After discussion amongst staff psychiatrists, the patient’s request was granted. The consensus was that nourishment in some form was imperative to the Count’s physical health.

Attending Physician observed the Count eating. He eschewed the knife and fork, instead gnawing like an animal at the raw beefsteak served to him. He later licked the blood from his hands, apparently relishing the taste.

After several meals of raw meat, the patient regained his original strength and vigor. He then demanded to be served the “juice” of pressed raw meat, claiming that another noble—the Princess Sissy of Austria—survived on such a diet for years.

Dr. Path negotiated a compromise with the patient. If the Count would participate in therapy and agree to take supplemental vitamins, he would be granted the special dietary request.

“Morgan’s last message said the transmitter hasn’t moved for over thirty minutes,” said Daisy.

Betsy raised her eyes from the report. She had another page to read.

“They may have stopped for food,” she said.

“No, I don’t think they would chance that, not with a kidnapped girl in the car. I bet they’ve reached their destination,” said John.

“It’s about…fifty miles from here,” said Daisy, reading her sister’s text. “And Morgan thinks they may have stopped for good.”

Betsy craned her neck, looking back at Daisy.

“Why is your sister suddenly helping you?” she asked. “I thought you hated each other.”

Daisy stared back at her.

“I never said that,” she answered, shaking her head,

Betsy remembered that Daisy knew nothing about Morgan’s visit to her Carbondale office. She turned back around in her seat, staring out the windshield at the craggy mountains rising before them.





Chapter 84

NORTHERN SLOVAKIA

DECEMBER 28, 2010





They had been driving for two hours with little conversation. The radio played mostly American music, interrupted by energetic, incomprehensible blasts of Slovak.

Daisy pointed out the many castles built up on craggy promontories. “How did they build straight up from the rock like that?”

“Ottoman slaves captured in the wars,” answered Betsy. “At least that’s what my mother told me about one castle. I remember her telling me the story when I was a little girl.”

Betsy closed her eyes, her face crumpling. John took one hand off the steering wheel, and stroked her wet cheek.

Betsy bit her lip, taking a deep breath. “The Hungarians threw the slaves into a pit to die the moment they placed the last stone.”

John switched off the radio with a savage twist of his wrist. He didn’t understand a word and the music was mostly tunes from the nineties that made him nostalgic.

And unreasonably sad.

The snow fell wet on the windshield, fat goose feathers of white. John peered through the driving snow. Betsy reached over and massaged the back of his neck.

He sighed, relaxing at her touch.

“So you guys are lovers, right?” said Daisy.